


God(s)

by ChuckleVoodoos



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Cultural Differences, Fluff and Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Rare Pairings, and it shows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:14:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckleVoodoos/pseuds/ChuckleVoodoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He speaks in the night, after the fire has been tended and the children are asleep. Athelstan should be asleep as well, is indeed curled under his furs near the dying fire with eyes closed and even breathing, but Floki knows. </p><p>Floki always knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God(s)

 

“I do not understand you, priest.”

 

He speaks in the night, after the fire has been tended and the children are asleep. Athelstan should be asleep as well, is indeed curled under his furs near the dying fire with eyes closed and even breathing, but Floki knows.

 

Floki always knows.

 

“You say your god has a son, and yet they are the same. How is this so?” Athelstan considers pretending to slumber on, but he realizes that such an act of disrespect to a close friend of his master’s may lead to punishment. Ragnar is fond of Athelstan in his own way, the monk supposes, but he does not trust the fondness to hold to insulting a comrade.

 

He sighs and shifts, sitting up in his blankets and wrapping them around his shoulders like he did when he was a child. It is too cold to do anything else. Floki sits loosely on a stool, legs splayed out in front of him and a lax grin on his face. He does not look cold.

 

“They are different aspects of the same God. Jesus is God made flesh, while the Lord is God in his higher glory.” Floki cocks his head to the side, a bit like a bird, considering.

 

“Does not higher glory mean a stronger god? And so the father is stronger than the son, and could kill him should he wish. They are not the same, as one is weaker, mortal.” Athelstan shakes his head.

 

“No, no. Our Lord is not needlessly violent. Jesus died rather than harm another living soul. He had the power to save himself, but chose to die for our sins.” Floki snorts derisively, and Athelstan prickles, ready for another fight.

 

“You think yourselves capable of killing a god? Even a weak one?”

 

“But we did not kill him. He was reborn, and joined his Father in heaven.” Athelstan reminds him. “He lives on still.”

 

“Yes, with his father. Two gods.” Floki snickers smugly. “Or can Christians not count?”

 

“We can count as well as you!” Athelstan returns hotly, before wrestling his control back. He sighs, looking around for an example. When his hands remain empty, he looks down at them and comes up with an idea.

 

“Ah, it is like a hand. You see? Two fingers, separate from one another.” He holds up his pointer and middle finger, slightly apart, for Floki to see. The man nods, amused. “Yet they are the same hand.” He splays all of his fingers apart. “Different, yet the same.”

 

Floki seems greatly entertained by this explanation. He holds up his own hand and mimics Athelstan, looking at his fingers with ill-disguised mirth.

 

“And yet now I see five gods instead of only two. You have made your task all the more difficult, priest!” He laughs at the angry look that takes over Athelstan’s features, looking more like a pouting child than an enraged man.

 

“If you cannot understand, perhaps you were not meant to.” He huffs, looking away and letting his hand drop to clutch his blankets closer.

 

Floki grins at him teasingly.

 

“Ah, but I thought you Christians were here to save us all from our backwards ways. Yet you give up so easily.”

 

“You mock me, but you are the one who has been shown lesser if you cannot understand.” Athelstan tells him hotly, and the seer cackles in delight.

 

“Ah, there is the fire I have been looking for. Ragnar has you well-trained and docile, and perhaps you _are_ gentle at heart, but you are not as weak as you seem.” Athelstan blinks at this incongruous praise.

 

“I—thank you. That is… kind.” Not a word he is used to associating with Floki. The man laughs again.

 

“Kind—no, priest. I am not kind. I am a truth-speaker, and so the truth I must speak. If I thought you to be as spineless as you appear to others, I would tell you so.”

 

“Oh. I suppose I must retract my thanks, then, if a compliment was not indeed gifted.” Floki smirks.

 

“And the truth is not gift enough, priest?”

 

“Like a drought of ale, I suppose, it can be bitter or sweet.” Athelstan tells him thoughtfully. “Not many men prefer both.”

 

“Well, the bitter ale is the truer one, of that there is no doubt. Sweet ale is an illusion, fakened by the honey and the spices made to mask its true essence.” Athelstan nods the point.

 

“Perhaps that is right, but for some they make the ale easier to swallow, when otherwise it might be impossible. And is not a tailored truth better than none at all?” Floki chuckles, waving his hand in a grand, somewhat elegant gesture of acquiescence.

 

“You have a honeyed tongue yourself, priest. I know not whether I should trust a single world that falls from it.” Athelstan snorts.

 

“I liken it more to lead, most of the time, but I thank you for the praise—ah, or is that a truth as well? A tailored one?” Floki grins and shrugs.

 

“Who can know, except for the gods?” He splays his hand in a mockery of Athelstan’s earlier explanation. Athelstan shakes his head, exasperated smile tugging at his lips.

 

“I suppose I shall have to thank you anyway, for I think that giving thanks is in my nature. Compliment or not.” Floki turns his smoky smile towards the ceiling.

 

“Ah, the night wanes. You have amused me enough for one night’s work, boy. You may sleep.” With that he seems to be dismissed. Floki is certainly not looking at him anymore. Athelstan shrugs off the odd encounter and nestles down into his cocoon again, squeezing his eyes shut and searching for sleep.

 

He has almost found it when he hears a rustling behind him. Floki, moving about. Still not sleeping. He wonders if the man has the same problem that Athelstan does, the fruitless search for slumber on so many nights.

 

He is so close, and he supposes he could just sleep and forget this strange, almost civil conversation with Floki, go back to their uneasy alliance in the face of Ragnar, and yet…

 

“There are three.” He says into the darkness, and there is a stilling and then a sound.

 

“What?” Floki asks, sounding a bit puzzled. Athelstan clears his throat.

 

“It’s a trinity, not a twosome. There are three aspects of God.” There is another moment of silence, almost uncertain, before a burst of startled laughter leaves Floki’s throat.

 

“Three? All still the same one god, I suppose?” He asks wryly, and Athelstan smiles and sits up to look at him.

 

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

 

* * *

 

There are more nights after the first. Floki, and rarely Athelstan on his braver nights, begin talking when he senses the other is awake. They speak late into the night, sometimes until the first pink of dawn touches the sky.

 

They speak of religion, both ribbing the other on traditions that seem strange or silly, and it is easier to accept the ridicule of his faith when it is one-on-one and in the midst of good-hearted laughter. He finds himself chuckling now and again at the paradoxes of his own beliefs, and he is surprised to find that some of Floki’s views strike a cord within him that he did not know existed. They speak also of childhood memories, of dreams long past and of foods that tempt the appetite most.

 

Once Floki recites a chant about the power of the mistletoe, and Athelstan returns the favor with a childhood lullaby that one of the more secular fathers taught him. Floki praises his voice, dubbing him a song sparrow and urging more melodies from the flushed young man’s throat. Even songs of the church pass without ridicule, Floki’s pleasure with Athelstan’s voice seeming to overpower his distaste for the church itself.

 

Some nights Athelstan pinches his arm to keep from falling asleep just so that he will have a chance to talk to Floki. The man treats him much as he always has in the light of day, perhaps curbing the bite of his barbs just a little, but at night he is a different being, all laughter and shadow puppets and stories. At night he is a friend, and Athelstan craves a friend more than anything.

 

“You say you took a vow of celibacy. Does that mean you’ve never fucked a woman?” Floki asks him one night, as they sit side by side watching the dying embers. Athelstan stutters, hands twisting nervously in his shirt as he musters up an answer.

 

“N-No. Never.”

 

“Ever wanted to?” Floki asks slyly, and Athelstan answers before he can think it through,

 

“No!”

 

Floki pauses as though scenting something interesting, and turns his head slowly to regard Athelstan with a sharp smile.

 

“Ah. Men, then?” When Athelstan splutters, Floki chuckles. “You’ll not shock me, lad. I’ve bedded a few myself.” Athelstan pales, looks away.

 

“It is an awful sin, an abomination in my faith. I would be killed for it, among my folk.” He says softly. Floki considers him, mouth uncharacteristically firm and mirthless. Finally he says, slowly,

 

“You are not among your folk anymore, Athelstan.” Athelstan bites his lip. “Have you ever been kissed at all, boy? Do you know if you like men or women?” Athelstan shakes his head, ashamed. Floki gives a bark of laughter, but it is not unkind. “Easy enough to fix. Look at me, boy.” When Athelstan refuses, Floki murmurs his real name in a softer tone, and finally the man looks up.

 

“Just a kiss. Nothing more. Just so that you can know.” Floki murmurs so softly that he could be speaking almost to himself, and then he is leaning in and Athelstan forgets to breathe and there are chapped, dry lips against his own, just a light, easy pressure.

 

He thinks vaguely that this close, Floki smells of fallen leaves and wood smoke and musk, and that it is a rather pleasing smell when he thinks about it. He is unsure what to do, and Floki is remaining still as stone, lips just barely brushing against his, but he thinks that there is supposed to be more to a kiss than this.

 

He thinks of Ragnar and Lagertha, and the passionate kisses that they brazenly share in public. Less of a simple press, more of…

 

He tilts his head a little, surprised and pleased when their lips slot together more cleanly, like a dagger slipping into a sheath. He adds a little pressure, and Floki matches it force for force, tilting his head as well until they fit together so smoothly that it is hard to tell where one’s mouth begins. It’s a new sensation, but it feels close and pleasant, and Floki breathes slowly out through his nose, the warm air washing over Athelstan’s face, and it feels safe.

 

Emboldened by his success so far, he carefully parts his lips just a little, letting his tongue peek through. Lagertha had done this, he’d seen, sort of…

 

He swipes his tongue gingerly across the crease of Floki’s lips, tentative and gentle.

 

The man makes a strange sound, sort of startled, sort of rumbling, and then there is a hand in Athelstan’s curls pulling him closer and one around his waist, tugging his body closer so that much more than their lips are touching. Athelstan is clumsy, but luckily he stumbles into Floki and not the fire. The man gives off about as much heat, which is soothing on such a cold night. He is unsure where his hands should go, but in his fall they have landed on Floki’s shoulder, so he allows one to vaguely copy Floki and cup the man’s neck and lets the other reach up instinctively to rest against Floki’s rough cheek.

 

Floki is bolder with his tongue, plundering Athelstan’s mouth in the way that all of his people seem wont to do with new discoveries. Athelstan first seeks to copy Floki’s movements, but soon finds his own rhythms, distracted with the taste and the feel of the man.

 

He loses track of time, but eventually the popping of a dying log in the fire draws their attention, setting them apart with a startled movement.

 

Athelstan stares at Floki, breathing hard. In a nervous motion, he finds himself licking his lips, and Floki presses his lips hard, just once, to the place where Athelstan’s tongue disappears back into his mouth, then leans away again.

 

Athelstan wants to pull him back, steal his own last kiss. He feels warm and full and strange, a bit like he used to when the priests brought him a present. That rush of surprise and affection and--

 

Floki does not look nearly as flustered as Athelstan feels. Indeed, he looks as though he is a cat that has just devoured a rather tasty bit of prey.

 

“You kiss rather like a maiden, sparrow. Are you a man-fucker after all?” He teases, and Athelstan feels the heavy blanket of _something_ that has covered him vanish. It’s just a joke, like everything that Floki does. The Jester, the descendant of Loki.

 

Just a joke.

 

“I think that I would need to kiss a woman to be sure.” He says shortly, and stands for bed.

 

* * *

 

He does, indeed, kiss a woman. Or a girl, at least. He is out picking berries with Gyda, and the girl is quite the cleverest creature he thinks he has ever met, even more so than the ever learned monks.

 

“You are upset, Athelstan.” She declares rather than asks, when they are sitting in front of the bush and adding berries to their basket. “You may tell me. I won’t tell Bjorn and I won’t tease you.” She adds earnestly. Athelstan cannot help but smile at her kindness.

 

“Thank you, Gyda, but it is truly nothing. I am perhaps a bit distracted by the lovely day.” Gyda pouts at him, tugging a berry off the bush with a bit more force than necessary.

 

“Floki has done something. You avoid him now, where you used to seek him out. Even though all he does is tease you. He didn’t hurt you, did he? I shall disembowel him if he did.” She says firmly, frowning. Athelstan carefully keeps from laughing at such a threat. Gyda truly does take after her shield maiden mother.

 

“He has done nothing to earn such a harsh punishment, Gyda. I am the one who has been foolish.” He tells her honestly.

 

“Bah. You are never foolish, Athelstan. Floki is always the Fool, on the other hand.” She declares, and he smiles at her childish adulation of him. “So, what is it then?”

 

Athelstan considers. Floki had said that men consorting with one another was a different matter here than where he had come from, but he still hesitates to voice his indiscretion. Still, Gyda watches him with gentle, guileless eyes and eventually he says softly,

 

“He kissed me, you see. As a joke. I’m afraid I took it rather more seriously than he.” He says, ashamed, and he watches Gyda blink in shock before her face softens. One berry-stained hand rests delicately on his.

 

“Oh, Athelstan. You like him, don’t you?” Athelstan swallows.

 

“Very much. And it is wrong and evil and even if it wasn’t, he would still think it only a great jest and I—“

 

Soft lips stop his thought, there and gone in a moment like a hummingbird’s wing. Gyda smiles at him.

 

“My dear, strange friend. It is not wrong. You tell me that your god is loving of everything he created, isn’t that so? And he created you, so he must love you. You are not evil.” She tells him, so soothing and logical and wise for her years, and Athelstan smiles at her in watery thanks. A frown darts across her rosy lips. “As for the Fool, well—if he cannot see what a prize your affections are, than he is even sillier than I presumed. To toy with you like that.” She shakes her head sharply. “I hate him. I shall kick him for you, when we return home.”

 

“No, please don’t.” Athelstan begs her, although the idea teases a smile out of him. “I can kick him myself, if I need to.”

 

“You should.” Gyda urges him. “Kick him and then move right along. I see that you miss his friendship, although I cannot imagine why. And there are other men, Athelstan. Other women too. As my mother says, if you miss a foe, you do not surrender. You swing again.”

 

Athelstan laughs at this sound, warrior-like advice, although truthfully he does not think that there is anyone in the world quite like Floki, and so swinging again would be useless in this case. Still, it is the thought that counts, and if he stays here, even if he is a cursed being who longs for his own gender, he will not be killed, or shunned.

 

He is freer here as a slave than he ever was as a monk.

 

“Keep swinging, hmm?” He muses, popping a berry into his mouth and chewing.

 

 _I_ miss _him. In every sense of the word._

 

* * *

 

That night he sits up, not waiting for Floki to call him. The man has been giving him his space since the kiss, sensing Athelstan’s displeasure, and he has missed their firelight talks.

 

“Floki, I am sorry. I have been discourteous to you, holding a grudge that I had no right to.” He says in a rush, face heating at the apology. Floki appears to be asleep, settled against the wall on his stool, but at Athelstan’s words he cracks open one catlike eye.

 

He says nothing. Athelstan swallows and hurries on.

 

“I know that you were just trying to help me understand myself, and I thank you. And I know that the kiss was nothing to you, but as you know, because of my faith, it was a very large thing for me.” Here he pauses, and betraying himself, asks softly, “It—did it mean nothing to you?”

 

Floki allows his eye to fall shut, huffing out a thoughtful breath.

 

“It was a fairly decent kiss.” He allows, which seems to be all the good he can say of it. Athelstan’s stomach sinks, but he continues on despite the sorrow.

 

“Right. Well, thank you. And it did. Help, I mean.”

 

“Oh?” Floki asks, sounding bored. Athelstan swallows.

 

“Yes. I… I do feel attraction to men, more than to women.” He says, feeling the shame lessen with each time he admits it. “I am still unsure that it is right, but I do.”

 

Both of Floki’s eyes snap open now, lit by the firelight.

 

“Do you now? A man-fucker after all.”

 

“Please don’t use that term.” Athelstan asks him softly. “I do not like it.” Floki snorts, but shrugs in what might be agreement.

 

“And knowing you and your virtuous ways, you’re not just talking about a roll in the furs. You have a one and only, I suppose. Someone you’re mooning over?” Athelstan licks his lips.

 

_He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know._

“I do.” He admits. “And they are the one. The only.” He is sure of that, thinking of shadow-tinged nights laughing and whispering like they were the only people in the world. “Such a love is impossible, but I feel it all the same, even if it is not returned.” Floki watches him closely, eyes narrowing in thought.

 

“Impossible? I never took you for a pessimist.”

 

“I am a realist.” Athelstan avers firmly. “But I am happy in the knowing, in the warmth of my regard and the joy that it brings me.” He pauses. “And I am content with the friendships that are gifted to me. If… if they still are?” He asks carefully, and Floki stares a little, seeming a bit… distracted, almost, before he suddenly smiles, wide as though he realizes he hasn’t been and is trying to make up for it.

 

“Friends, is it? Friends with a Christian, I never thought I’d see the day.” But he beckons Athelstan closer, like a siren from his blankets, and he tells him of the twin ravens that sit with Odin and divulge to him the secrets of the world.

 

Athelstan hugs his knees to his chest and looks up at him as he speaks, not bothering to hide the awe on his face.

 

_My one. My only._

 

* * *

 

 

Ragnar frees him on a crisp, cool, day, when the leaves are shifting colors and everything is changing.

 

He goes to Athelstan when the man is stirring the pot for dinner, and he puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

 

His face is grave, but there is pride there too, the sort a father or a brother might have for their kin.

 

 _You have done a great service for me, and have earned your freedom,_ he says. _A harbor nearby, with a ship set for your home,_ he says. _Go, my friend,_ he says.

 

 ** _You are not one of us,_** he does not say, but Athelstan hears it clear as a bell.

 

He gathers his things slowly, packing away in careful swathing the dried wreaths and trinkets that Gyda has given him for safe travel. Pagan craft, the devil’s work, he imagines his fellow priests saying, and he finds it hard to breathe.

 

Lagertha hugs him tightly to her bosom and does not let him go for a long few minutes. Bjorn calls him a traitor and kicks him in the shin, yelling that he didn’t like Athelstan anyway before sulking away into the woods. The boy is hiding tears.

 

Rollo gives him a nod, and Ragnar gives him a sharp, jewel-inlaid dagger from his raids, as well as a bag heavy with coin to buy his passage on the ship.

 

Floki says nothing, and in the end Athelstan must seek the man out himself, hidden among the trees.

 

He is leaning against an oak and staring up at the red, orange, yellow leaves with a strange look on his face, like he is very far away. Athelstan clears his throat and approaches him. Floki looks up, smiling thinly at him.

 

“Ah, a slave no longer. You must be pleased to be leaving us damned unbelievers for more civilized folk—“

 

“Floki. Please don’t.” Athelstan begs him, still approaching as though Floki is a wounded animal. “Do not do me the dishonor of thinking I do not care for you.” He adds, soft as a petal, stopping in front of the man.

 

Floki’s jaw tenses, and he looks as though he might continue his poisonous tirade, but Athelstan stops him with an embrace, causing the tall man to fall against the trunk of the tree behind him in his surprise.

 

“I will miss you most of all, you know.” Athelstan tells him honestly, whispering the words into his chest. “My dearest friend.” Floki breathes once, long and deep, and then wraps wiry arms around him, pulling him in and resting his weight against the trunk more evenly.

 

“More than your one and only? He shall be jealous.” Athelstan snorts at the unintentional humor of that statement.

 

“Oh, at least as much as he.” He answers. “And perhaps doubly so, for I have at least kissed you.” He adds teasingly, testing the waters. Floki laughs a bit incredulously.

 

“You are leaving without kissing your true love goodbye? Cruel boy.” Athelstan smiles.

 

“Kiss him the once, and never again? It would be a cruel, exquisite sort of torture.” He muses, and indeed it has been. “This is better, I suppose. I don’t… I don’t belong here. I’ve never belonged here, Floki, not even when I was only chattel. I—“

 

“Hush, lad.” Floki stops his choked flow of words, stroking a hand through his hair. “You’ll have to cut it, won’t you?” He muses, and it takes Athelstan a moment to follow his train of thought.

 

“Oh. Yes, I suppose. If I am to be a monk once again, we are clean-shaven and short-haired.”

 

“And you will make yourself bald, won’t you?” He rubs the top of Athelstan’s head, where his bare pate will be.

 

“Yes. It’s odd to think of, now.” He says. He can’t imagine himself without his long curls braided away from his face, the beads clicking in the breeze. Floki hums.

 

“And take up your vows once again; never kiss another soul.” Athelstan swallows harshly, trying not to look up at Floki’s quirked, tempting lips.

 

“Not one.”

 

“Tell me, shall you condemn us all to your hell in your daily prayers? Curse us while breaking your bread? Me most especially?” Floki asks him, a little darkly, and Athelstan tightens his grip and shakes his head.

 

“Never. I would never.” He whispers fiercely. Floki sighs, hand playing through his hair.

 

“Time changes us all, sparrow. All your songs will be of your god now, and no more of trees and the spirits within them.”

 

“I’ll still know the songs, in my heart.” Athelstan tells him, and Floki shakes his head.

 

“You will forget.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

“We will see.” Floki releases him, pushes him away gently. “Or, I suppose, we won’t. Will we?” He looks at the sky. “The sun is fading, boy. You should go while there is still light.”

 

Athelstan nods, even though he doesn’t agree. He should never leave this clearing, stay here with Floki forever as the seasons change all around them.

 

“Goodbye, Floki.”

 

He leaves.

 

* * *

 

He cannot sleep that night, so used to his talks with Floki to keep him awake, and so he pushes on through the darkness and reaches the harbor before first light. He ducks below the docks and sits upon the rocks, watching the sea crash against the shore, and he waits for the ship that will take him away from everything he knows.

 

A ship comes, but it is not the right one. It is large but undecorated, gliding silently through the night. It looks like the mourning pyres that Ragnar sends his fallen brethren on, cutting through the silent waters like Death itself.

 

Five more follow behind it.

 

 _Warships,_ he thinks vaguely, cold terror spreading through him. Warships, and Ragnar had not spoken of battle. The camp had been merry, swords left to the side and flagons lifted in their stead.

 

Warships, and no one knows but him.

 

 ** _You are not one of us,_** he imagines Ragnar saying, and he thinks of the teachings of his faith, of the sins of the pagans that must be purged.

 

He is not a warrior. He is a priest, and this is not his fight.

 

The flower bracelet Gyda wove him itches against the skin of his wrist like a shackle might. He is not bound by war to them, his slavers, his _friends,_ but there is a stronger bond.

 

One of love.

 

The ships are perhaps an hour off, still small on the horizon but growing ever closer. They must dock first, unload their armies and ready to march. He knows the terrain, he has just walked it, surefooted in the dark. The water laps at the stone under his feet like it is calling him, but he ignores it, standing and turning away from the empty, gray-cold horizon. Towards the embrace of the dark forest. Of the trees and the spirits within them.

 

 _You will forget._ Floki’s voice tells him, and Athelstan smiles grimly.

 

“I won’t.”

 

He starts to run.

* * *

  
 

He calls to the guards who are watching the perimeter, tells them that he needs to speak to Ragnar. They look confused, and he thinks the whole crew must know the story of his freedom and essential banishment from this place. His harried appearance and wild eyes cannot be helping. They do not let him pass, but Ragnar must hear his screams because he comes out of his home, brow furrowed and lips set.

 

“Athelstan, what madness has taken you? You have missed your ship for certain.”

 

“Please, they’re coming. They’re coming to kill you.” Athelstan whimpers, and Ragnar’s eyes widen. He calls the guards to heel and strides forward, catching his once-slave about the shoulders and leaning towards him urgently.

 

“When? How many?” He asks, belief clear in his eyes, and Athelstan thinks that he’s been stupid to leave at all. Of course he belongs here.

 

* * *

  
 

He is squirreled away with the children, and the sounds of battle make him shiver and fight with the urge to be ill. Ragnar had had some time to prepare, but not nearly enough, and Athelstan knows the battle will be hard. He’d been pulled away from the war tent to tend to the children and gather supplies, and as he’d left he’d seen Floki entering the tent, expression taut and tired and more serious than Athelstan has ever seen him.

 

Floki sees him as well, and his storm-colored eyes widen, his whole posture going rigid.

 

He mouths Athelstan’s name silently amongst the din of the men’s planning, and Athelstan gives him a helpless smile before he is pulled out of the tent fully.

 

He thinks of Floki’s lips, shaping his name, and the man’s wide eyes, so vibrant and wild. He thinks of these things and tries not to think of the battle.

 

The flap of the tent opens.

 

The man is no one Athelstan knows, but he is a Saxon, clear enough. Gyda gasps and stumbles to stand in front of the smaller children, fierce as her mother, and Bjorn grabs his small knife from his boot and bares his teeth, fearless as a bear.

 

Athelstan draws his own dagger, the one that Ragnar gave him only a day ago that he has no idea how to use, and readies himself for a fight. He nods at Bjorn and leaps forward.

 

The man is an efficient fighter, but caught off guard by the assault. Bjorn manages to nick his ribs before the man’s sword is up and he’s fighting them off. Gyda flings pottery, rocks, anything with a bit of heft with deft aim, distracting the man, but even with her aid it is a losing battle. Bjorn is too cocky, too hot-blooded with his first real battle, and he is being too risky. Athelstan by contrast is too timid, unsure where to stick his blade that will result in more damage to his enemy than to himself.

 

The Saxon is more seasoned than all of them together, and Bjorn’s knife flies from his hand after a particularly careless swing of bravado. The man grins sharply and raises his sword in a mighty arc.

 

Athelstan moves before he can think. If he’d had time to think, he still would have moved.

 

Where the sword was aimed to behead the smaller boy, it hits Athelstan soundly in the chest. He feels bone shatter and the hot bloom of blood in his throat. He stumbles, coughing, and falls to his knees. He is at level with the man’s stomach, and he reaches forward while he can still muster any strength, driving his dagger into the man’s upper belly, where he knows the organs cluster and retain life. This man will not touch the children.

 

It is a lethal blow, but not immediately so. The man looks down at him, rage clouding the pain in his eyes, and he raises his sword again, this time catching Athelstan in the shoulder. It does not have his full strength behind it, for although it cuts deep it does not kill.

 

Still, it knocks Athelstan to the floor. The man crumples next to him, anger dying only as the life does in his eyes. They lie side by side, Athelstan gasping for breath through the ocean of blood in his mouth, and staring past the man at the opening of the tent.

 

Gyda is screaming, and Bjorn is yelling something back at her, but Athelstan cannot understand. Their cries drown amidst the other sounds of battle, metal clashing and blood seeping and his own harsh breaths.

 

Floki enters at a run, eyes wild, but stops dead at the sight of him He is framed the light coming through the opening of the tent in some strange kind of halo, like the saints inked in the illuminated texts Athelstan so loves. Gyda runs to Floki, crying, but he pushes her aside with ill manner, stepping to Athelstan’s side and kneeling beside him.

 

Athelstan smiles up at him, close-mouthed so that he does not scare the man with the blood bubbling through his teeth.

 

_My one. My only._

Floki is dry-eyed, but there is a sort of deadening in his eyes, a hardening of the lines of his face that used to mean laughter. He does not plead, he does not cajole. He just leans over Athelstan, smashing their lips together and smearing Athelstan’s blood all around his mouth in the process, like war paint. Athelstan moves weakly against him, choking out his name.

 

Floki smiles, and it is a dangerous thing, full of darkness and power. He presses their lips together again, more softly now, and whispers into his mouth, clear as cut crystal amongst the clamor,

 

“I shall drag you up from Hel itself, Athelstan, and kill your god if it gets in my way.”

 

Athelstan smiles. Blasphemy and sodomy and murder and paganism. He is damned indeed.

 

And he does not care.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes to chanting that is not his or that of his brothers, calling him to prayer. A few words here and there jump out at him from his knowledge of the language and his time with Floki. Floki, yes. It is indeed the man’s haunting voice, roughened with the force of the words rapidly flowing from his mouth without pause.

 

“I hope…you’re not…cursing me.” Athelstan manages to pant out before he remembers the pain to his ribs and shoulder and winces. He does manage to open his sleep-gummed eyes and look at Floki.

 

The man does not look well. Floki has always been a little too tall, a little oddly proportioned, but he’d moved with a sort of lean grace that belays his odd form. Now he looks as though he is being crushed under the weight of his long limbs. They are too thin, more skeletal than sinewy, and the roughness of his skin is washed gray with pallor and exhaustion. He has not ringed his eyes and lined his cheeks with his jester’s paint, and his face looks curiously bare and frail, especially considering the man’s receding hairline.

 

“You _are_ a curse, boy. You’ve been a thorn in my side for too long.” Floki rasps, swaying slightly in his vigil and looking as though he might collapse at any moment.

 

Athelstan pats the pile of furs he lays on, encouraging the man to sit. With a sigh, Floki does. Indeed, he _lies_ rather too close, so that they are pressed side to side.

 

“Ragnar is saying that you are a hero, for saving his children. That you will be an honored member of his company. There is talk of a celebration in your honor.”

 

“Oh, no, please.” Athelstan begs, reddening at the thought and wincing when his surprised wriggle causes pain to lance through him. “No parties.” He hates the drunken raucousness that accompanies them. He usually leaves as soon as he is able, and it would be harder to do so at his own celebration. Floki laughs at his discomfort, leaning back lazily on the furs and looking at Athelstan with a wicked smile. It is strange. His eyes are Floki’s and his mouth is Floki’s, and so he must be Floki, but a Floki that has seen a winter of the soul. It is certain.

 

Athelstan wonders how many died in the battle, to cause such a change.

 

“Oh? He’s considered instead offering you his lovely daughter’s hand in marriage, since you two seem so fond of each other.” Floki tells him, an edge to his teasing. Athelstan gapes at him in horror.

 

“Gyda? He—oh, that poor, poor child. I would never bed a child, nor anyone I was not in love with. I love Gyda, of course, but I am not in love with her; she is a sister, a friend. Oh, has he told her? Does the girl hate me?” Floki laughs and pats his cheek comfortingly.

 

“Ah, do not worry, my friend. I have told Ragnar quite firmly that no marriage proposals from his quarter are necessary. He has restrained himself to building you a hut as big as his own and a revered place among his council.”

 

“R-Restrained?! Floki, I’m not a councilman! I’m not… not anything! I don’t fit here--“

 

“You almost died here, fighting like the warrior you are so sure you are not.” Floki tells him softly. “I held you in my arms and felt your lifeblood leave you. Watched _you_ leave me. And now you have found your way back, and you think you do not belong?” There is rebuke in his words, and also pain, and Athelstan shakes his head and grasps at Floki’s hand where it is clenched in the furs between their bodies.

 

“I want to belong here, Floki, I do. Not as some great warrior, or a seer like you, but… here.” He squeezes Floki’s hand, and the man’s spidery fingers shift so that they can weave together comfortably. “Right here.”

 

“I kissed you, when you were dying.” Floki drawls slowly, staring up at the ceiling rather than at Athelstan. Athelstan nods his remembrance. “I meant to apologize for that, when you woke up.”

 

“Apologize? Why?” Athelstan asks him, because kisses from Floki are nothing to apologize for, and Floki scoffs, turning to glare at him.

 

“Because I stole another kiss after I promised only the once? Because I kissed you when I knew you were in love with another? Because I kissed you as you lay _dying,_ and as I did I found myself hoping that the man died during the battle, that mine would be the only kiss you would ever know?” Floki snaps out, startling Athelstan both with his tone and his revelations.

 

“You liked kissing me?” He asks gingerly, and Floki nods, looking furious with himself. “Would you… would you do it again?” Floki gapes at him incredulously, anger leeching from his features and leaving only blank surprise. “Please. Just one.”

 

“Just the one.” Floki murmurs, trancelike, in an echo of their earlier arrangement, and then he rolls over so that he is bracing his arms on either side of Athelstan’s head, his legs between Athelstan’s own, and he...

 

Well, the technical term is ‘kiss’, but it doesn’t seem to quite fit. Pecking Gyda was a kiss. This is… rapture. He doesn’t forget about the pain he is experiencing, nothing could do that, but it fades into the background, all of his senses filled with Floki. The man is very careful not to put any pressure on his torso at all, and Athelstan is filled with a rush of affection amidst the fire for this small care.

 

Floki pulls away, just a little, and Athelstan takes the opportunity given to taste the man’s long, bare throat. Floki inhales sharply at the motion. His skin tastes of salt and earth, and it is savory in a strange, enticing way. He licks an experimental strip up to the man’s jaw, delighting in the difference of textures that the man’s stubble provides.

 

Such a joyful thing, kissing, he thinks. He is glad that he has come to this, that he might know its wonders. Sermons and verses are beautiful indeed, but this is a special sort of worship.

 

Floki pulls his head back up by his curls and presses against his mouth again, licking his way inside impatiently. Athelstan whimpers at the force of the kiss, but not in a pained way. It is like a thunderstorm, he thinks. Not frightening, but still breathtaking in its power and raw energy.

 

He allows his hands to clasp together at the back of Floki’s neck, pulling the man closer still. It is only when his wound gives an odd twinge that he pulls away with a startled gasp.

 

Floki’s eyes are almost black, the pupils dilated to the point of eclipsing the sea green of his iris.

 

“He cannot have you, this love of yours.” Floki pants. “I am sorry, Athelstan, but I shall fell him with my axe before he touches you.” This is a dramatic sort of gesture, but the look in Floki’s eyes says that it exaggerates nothing of his intentions. He is very glad that no bloodshed will be necessary.

 

“A difficult feat for even your axe, love of mine.” He says, attempting levity and instead sounding only hesitant. Floki seems frozen, looming above him like a thundercloud. “And you _do_ have me, Floki. If… if you want me, that is.”

 

The man is still as stone.

 

“Me?” He whispers, lips barely moving. Athelstan nods. A strange smile spreads across Floki’s face at the affirmation. “I’ve corrupted you more than I thought, priest, if you jest even now.” He giggles in an off, nervous manner. Athelstan feels his cheeks heat, but does not back down.

 

“That is your talent, Floki, not mine. I do not ask that you return my feelings, just that you do not mock them.”

 

Floki’s smile fades a little, the twisted nature of it softening in something like dawning shock.

 

“You love _me_ , Athelstan? I am your one?” Athelstan nods, slowly.

 

“My only.” He murmurs in agreement.

 

“Ah.” Floki regards him in silence for a moment, and his expression is unreadable. Athelstan feels his heart sinking. There should be _something_ there, even anger or disgust. Not this strange blankness. “I told Ragnar that no marriages would be required from his quarter, but I think perhaps they might not be out of the question entirely. You need a minder, boy, and it might as well be me.”

 

“Wh-What?” Athelstan squeaks, because of all responses he expected, _this_ was not one of them. Floki smiles at him in his lazy way, at odds with the sharpness of his eyes.

 

“Well, after all, you’ve earned a reward with all of your heroism. And I am of rather high standing among our people. Unless of course you’d rather marry someone else?”

 

“Huh? I, uh, no? I mean, yes. No, no, sorry, it just feels like this is the sort of situation where one says yes, not no, but in this particular case I do mean—“ Floki stops his babbling with a brief kiss that curves with his smile.

 

“I shall try again then, sparrow, and see if a simpler request does less to scramble your brain. Athelstan, I must insist that you marry me, as I’m really rather fond of you and will, in fact, kill anyone else who you might have in mind for the honor. Better?”

 

“That’s… still not really a request. But yes?” Athelstan offers weakly, and then gathers his wits and his courage. “I mean, yes. Of course I’ll marry you. No killing necessary.”

 

Floki grins at him.

 

“Right answer, boy. I’ll tell Ragnar tomorrow and he can prepare a ceremony. Perhaps if you are very good I might even allow you to speak of your strange gods-god at the rite.”

 

“The Lord is not strange!” Athelstan snaps, and Floki laughs heartily at his ruffled expression. Athelstan feels his anger soften to something sweeter as he muses. “He is indeed most merciful and giving. After all, he gave me you. And a second chance at life with you when I thought all was lost.” Floki’s hand brushes over his wounded shoulder softly enough that the injury does not even twinge.

 

“Ah, but how are we to know that it was your god that spared you? Perhaps it was my gods that gave me you.” Floki argues softly. “I prayed every moment that you were lost to me, Athelstan, and you came back. My gods were listening.”

 

Athelstan considers him for a moment. Floki is not looking for a fight, he thinks, but merely speaking what he believes to be the truth. He thinks that their faiths will always be a point of contention between the two of them, both too stubborn and fond of a good argument to ever give in. Still, their divergent beliefs were what struck up their strange friendship in the first place.

 

God. Gods. Does it really matter?

 

“I am glad that some god was listening, whether yours or mine.” He offers peacefully. “Perhaps they are all the same god known by different names.”

 

Floki’s smile is slow and stunning in its sheer adoration. He raises his hand and spreads out his fingers in an echo of their first real conversation. Athelstan raises his own to meet it, so that their fingers meet tip-to-tip and rest warmly together.

 

“Different but the same, hmm?” He muses. He shakes his head, laughing, and turns his head so that his smile is hidden in Athelstan’s hair. His free arm curls about Athelstan’s shoulder, pulling him into the warmth of Floki. He nestles there, happier than he can ever remember being, the ache of his wounds but a memory. Their clasped hands settle over Floki’s chest, where his heart beats a slow and soothing tattoo.

 

“I do not understand you, priest. But one day I will, and as for the rest of the days… I shall simply love you.”

 

Athelstan smiles and leans up to kiss him.

 

“And there, at last, we have something to agree upon.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
